


if i could go on sleeping

by doandhope



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24799654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doandhope/pseuds/doandhope
Summary: Or, five times Persephone woke Hades up and one time she let him sleep.
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hades/Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88





	if i could go on sleeping

**I.**

Persephone watches Hades sleep. He’s a curious thing: his too pale skin sweat-free despite their recent exertions, his slow breaths defying time’s tempo, his navelless stomach refusing to acknowledge receiving any motherly nurture. Generational differences, she supposes, though she can’t recall ever noticing such traits in her own mother. In the end, it’s irrelevant. There will be plenty of time to learn each other’s bodies.

She reaches over and trails her hand across his chest, tracing an ancient scar. He doesn’t register them anymore, but she’s incapable of such indifference, appreciating the history of them and the power they boast at every opportunity. She continues her journey downwards to his hip bones and finally to his groin. Though she’s had him twice already, she wants him again, insatiable in the manner of a young newlywed and a fertility goddess to boot. She does not yet know how rare it is for him to sleep. In truth, that knowledge would have made little difference.

Persephone moves to straddle his abdomen and bounces. She does not have to wait long; he moves his hand to steady her hip and, after another moment, opens his eyes. In response, she gives a rather unsubtle roll of her hips.

His eyes find hers, and she thinks that she will never tire of the love she finds there. “Again?” he rumbles, his deep voice made deeper with sleep.

She hesitates, suddenly uncertain whether she’s asking for too much.

Hades rushes to assure her. With grave seriousness, he reaches for her cheek and holds her gaze. “I will always give you whatever you require.” And then he does.

After, sweaty and not caring one whit, she burrows herself into his chest, the intimacy of earlier somehow still not enough. Judging by the way he cradles her head, he feels the same.

“I love you,” she declares. It’s spoken freely and with all the confidence befitting a young goddess in love.

He strokes her hair and weighs his thoughts. He loves her like the air he doesn’t need, the sky he forsook, the realm he was bound to by lot. It’s a devastating thing the way the scorching sun was upon his virgin eyes after both a childhood and adulthood of darkness. Indeed, he can feel her love broiling his blood and sealing itself into his bones, and, unlike the world he forfeited, he knows he will never be able to let go of her. There’s no way to tell her this, the incomparable agony of his love for her, and so he reaches for her with his godly consciousness. When that too seems inadequate, he hums a song of love older than even himself and hopes she understands.

She does.

**II.**

It’s a quiet, ordinary night, and Persephone’s not sure what woke her. She examines the bedroom. Despite now being theirs and not just his, the room remains fairly Spartan. Or perhaps because of her and not _despite_ ; at her insistence, the only major change to the room was removing a small writing desk. Perplexed, she draws on her power and repeats her search. That’s when she feels it—a pulse of energy from him so small as to be nearly imperceptible and would certainly be unremarkable except that they’ve been married for decades and she’s never felt him lose control at all.

He’s on his side curled towards her as is his wont and shows no other sign of distress, except perhaps his breathing _might_ be fractionally faster than his typical unhurried rhythm. Her hesitation, however, breaks when she feels another pulse of power from him, and she shakes him awake. Hades’s eyes flash open and his aura flares, weighty and threatening.

“Hades?”

He sits up, but does not answer.

She reaches for his shoulder, and they share a moment of silence. Slowly, Persephone drags her hand down his tunic and traces the pattern of an underlying scar in an unspoken question.

Hades exhales, closes his eyes, and rests against the headboard. A moment later, he shakes his head.

“Talk to me, lover. Please.”

Though he remains silent, his lips quirk at the pet name. He tucks her head into his chest and rests his left arm around her shoulders.

“I’ve never loved the surface world like you do,” he deflects. This, she knows; he had fought for family and freedom from his father’s rule, not for any care of the world itself. He continues, “Not to say that those years were pleasant, but they’re ancient history.”

He pauses for a long moment and, with his other hand, caresses her wedding band. “How long are you going to want to stay with this old man?”

“What?” Thrown by the non-sequitur, Persephone tries to draw back and look him in the eyes, but he holds her against his chest. “Forever,” she declares, not understanding, but also wanting to soothe him.

She feels his smile, and, in that moment, it doesn’t matter that she can’t see it.

“I bled for them. Sacrificed my birthright for them. All for their indifference at best and hatred at worst.”

And in that moment, she hears what he doesn’t say: that he fears his love will not be enough, that she too will leave one spring day and not come back.

“I love you,” she says. And when those words feel lacking, she folds herself deeper into his chest, fingers his wedding ring, and hopes he understands the depths of her love for him.

**III.**

The Underworld has never been a particularly warm place, but it’s never bothered Persephone; it just means that outside she dresses in the warmer clothes her husband so proudly provides. Inside, it’s always been warm enough between fires, blankets, and the heat of him. Take their bed, for example: the number of blankets perfectly selected to keep her warm—cool enough to allow for snuggling but never too many to cause overheating. For his part, he’s never been terribly sensitive to temperature changes but has always deferred to her comfort. He’s not in their bed now, though, and Persephone, cold, wakes. At this time of night, or at least what passes for night in the Underworld, there’s really only one place he could be. Sighing, Persephone drags herself out of bed and trudges to his office.

As expected, candlelight flickers underneath the door. She pushes open the door without preamble, fully prepared to drag him to bed. She pauses at what she finds—her husband uncomfortably hunched over his desk, pen still in hand. The last few years have not been easy for him, civil wars raging across multiple continents. Still, he’s borne it well or at least in that age-old acceptance he applies to all parts his station. And if his complaints were more numerous than usual (mortals fighting over a dynasty that will fall in a century—he’s never revered anything built to last less than an eternity), well, Persephone’s tried to ignore it.

“Hades?” She gently shakes him awake.

He shifts slowly and stretches, back popping. His eyes, soft, find hers.

“Come to bed, husband.” Persephone offers her hand, outstretched.

At this Hades hesitates and gazes at his paperwork. “There’s work to be done,” he says quietly.

“There’s always work to be done,” she retorts. She shivers, dressed only in her nightclothes. She doesn’t think Hades notices, transfixed on his work.

He picks up his pen, fiddles with it, and, finally, places it down without writing anything. “Okay,” he relents, and, taking her hand, allows her to pull him up.

Persephone, pleased, turns to leave, but he stops her. He crosses the office, grabs his coat from the coatrack, and offers it to her. Only after she accepts it does he let her lead them back to their bedchambers.

**IV.**

Hades and Persephone are a tangle of limbs, and the moment is almost perfect. Persephone considers her husband; she’s reluctant to wake him—these days, them both being in the same room is a recipe for a fight. Another long moment passes, and she decides to chance waking him; she could really use a drink. Carefully, Persephone separates herself from him, and, while he twitches, Hades remains asleep. She crosses the room to grab a bottle and, finding it empty, frowns. Fortunately, there’s a second bottle on the dresser, and she uncorks it with a soft pop. Satisfied, she returns to bed and raises the bottle to her lips when—

“Haven’t you had enough tonight?”

Shit. “I thought you were still asleep,” she tries.

“I was,” he says, voice accusatory.

Persephone rolls her eyes and takes a drink. “It’s not like you need much sleep anyway.”

“Not as much as you seem to need the drink,” he mutters. “Is my company really so unbearable even when I’m asleep?”

“Well, let me think,” she starts, drily. “You never stay on your side of the bed. Never respect that that’s your side of the bed, and this one’s mine. You’re always trying take more than your due and never ask permission.”

Jaw twitching, he sits up and turns his back to her. What a picture they must make, two lovers naked in bed, each refusing to so much look at one another. “It was my bed first. It’s not my fault if you don’t fit in it anymore.”

“And it’s not my fault that you can’t budge an inch!” Persephone drops the bedtalk. “You run this kingdom with regard for no one but yourself.”

“You forget your place,” he hisses.

Persephone scoffs. “My place? I’m your damn queen.”

“Are you?” he spits. “You sure haven’t acted like it, running off to your little bar at every opportunity. You sure haven’t acted like it, leaving six months of every twelve to go chase your mother’s heels.”

Persephone, outraged, turns to glare daggers into his back. Hades seems to realize it, stands, and walks over to his dresser. He dresses slowly, first selecting a pair of underwear, then freshly pressed slacks. He grabs a dress shirt and meticulously fastens each button, trying to buy himself time to figure out how to turn this escape into an exit. Next he selects a vest, a tie, a blazer, a handkerchief, a pair of cufflinks and makes it back to their bed only to don his socks and shoes. He fiddles with his tie and finally, finally turns to look at her.

“I’ll be taking my breakfast in the parlor tomorrow,” the “if you want to join me” left unspoken.

It’s a (rather inadequate) olive branch, she knows—he hardly ever eats these days. Persephone resolutely does not take it. Holding his gaze, she raises the bottle to her lips and takes a long draught. His eyes harden, and he takes his exit.

**V.**

Persephone is all packed for spring—in truth, she’s been packed for nearly a week. She stands outside their bedroom and takes a fortifying sip from her flask, nearly empty. With a deep breath, she pushes open the door.

Inside Hades lies asleep, curled inwards on himself but with his arm outstretched towards the empty center of their bed. Persephone pauses at the sight. She knows now how rare it is for him to sleep, how he hates both the profligacy and vulnerability inherent in the act, hates waking alone. And she knows too that he’s tired on account of his new shantytown, the influx of workers seeking relief from depression and dust up above and whatever dumb machine broke last night (there’s always one these days). At that thought, any charity Persephone might have felt for him vanishes. Impossible, ornery old man.

Persephone empties her flask, waltzes in, and picks up the last of her bags. With one last distasteful look at her husband, she slams the door shut.

On the other side of the door, Hades jolts awake. “Seph?” He scrambles to get out of bed, but Persephone is already gone.

**I.**

After the boy, after Orpheus fails, both nothing and everything changes. Persephone walks into their bedroom, and the sight from three winters past greets her: Hades asleep, curled around empty air. She knows she should wake him; they’ve been trying again, renegotiating the foundations of their marriage—and there’s a lot of new scaffolding to install and even more debris to clear. She knows too that they’ve avoided too many uncomfortable conversations in their marriage and, when that failed, each other too.

They're different now; warped from the weight of them both and marred from the scars they've carved into each other. And yet, she sees the hollow of his neck and the contour of his chest and knows there’s still a place for her here. She climbs into bed and maneuvers his arm and her leg, sanding down some of their sharp edges. It takes some work, but they fit.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Best of My Love” by the Eagles because isn’t that just the mood for these two.


End file.
